Deal the Cards, Let Them Fall
by eponnia
Summary: Modern AU. With FBI agent Javert closing in, Enjolras' career as a con artist is catching up with him. All he wants now is to quietly vanish from the government's files, but he accepts one last job when an intriguing woman asks for his assistance in financially crippling the corrupt wealthy. [Adopted: "A Revolutionary Job Prospect" by Sliverloc303. 2012 film Enjonine.]
1. Chapter 1

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Credit for this idea goes to Sliverloc303, who has graciously allowed me to continue _A Revolutionary Job Prospect_. As I was informed that said story might be continued with another chapter (I vote yes!), I changed the original title and summary of my version of the fic so there won't be any confusion between _A Revolutionary Job Prospect_ and this. Sliverloc303, if you think I've taken too many liberties with this as compared to your original, please let me know.**

**The title of this story, _Deal the Cards, Let Them Fall_, is borrowed from a line in the original _Devil Take the Hindmost_ by Andrew Lloyd Webber with lyrics by Glenn Slater, from the musical _Love Never Dies_, the sequel to _The Phantom of the Opera_. I'm not even going to go into _Love Never Dies_, but take it as you will.**

**This story draws inspiration from the 2012 film adaption, specifically Aaron Tveit's intriguing interpretation of Enjolras and Samantha Barks' stunning portrayal of Éponine. The main pairings will be Enjonine (Enjolras/Éponine). Mosette (Marius/Cosette), Jolichetta (Joly/Musichetta), and Grantzelma (Grantaire/Azelma) will show up, but _Deal the Cards…_ centers on Enjonine.**

**A more sophisticated cover image will be coming soon.**

**I highly suggest you read _A Revolutionary Job Prospect_, but I also hope you enjoy _Deal the Cards, Let Them Fall_.**

* * *

What makes a person good?

What makes them right, as opposed to wrong? Is it their intentions, even if the road to their goal is less than pristine? If the steps taken to meet the end result are less than faultless, daring risks that needed to be taken, underhand dealings that the world did not approve of, what then?

The person could rationalize that the end justifies the means, that it was all in the name of a higher cause, but their judges are not eager to listen and quick to condemn. Are right and wrong are subjective? Or is there a higher power with rules that we must adhere to? Will judgment be faced in the end?

But what if the person's motives were good? What if they committed a deed to aid someone else, to protect and assist, but said deed was less than noteworthy? Would their transgressions be absolved?

"That was too close," Enjolras said tersely, blue gaze scanning the dark road before him as he gripped the steering wheel.

"We made it out unharmed," Combeferre reasoned from the front passenger seat.

"By the skin of our teeth, you mean. We could have been arrested or shot. Or both."

"But you have to admit it was genius to slip out from under Javert's nose pretending to be innocent bystanders," Grantaire put in from the backseat.

"It may have worked once," Enjolras countered, "but what if someone recognized us?"

"You always see the downside of things, don't you?"

"It's called being realistic."

Leaving the wealthy region of Paris behind, they entered one of the most run-down sections of the city; ignoring the curious and not so friendly stares their sleek, black sports car received, Enjolras pulled into an employee parking lot behind a row of old buildings. They exited the vehicle and went to a metal door, covered in rust and marked _employé_, over which hung a faded sign proclaiming the business to be a pawn shop; the door opened almost immediately at Combeferre's knock.

"Got anything to trade in?" Feuilly said, lighting a cigarette.

Enjolras shook his head. "Not tonight. We need to switch cars and lay low for a while."

"An escape run, then?" Feuilly replied, raising an eyebrow. "I'll get you the keys to the truck," he added when they failed to reply to his question. Tossing his cigarette into an ashtray, he turned and went into the building, disappearing into a back room. Enjolras, Combeferre, and Grantaire followed him into the main room, weaving through the array of items crammed into the pawn shop. A multitude of fans – hand painted by Feuilly himself – hung on a wall, while everything from record players to desks, maps, watches, rugs, and mannequins lined their path. Only a few lamps illuminated the pawn shop, casting most of the room into darkness.

"This place looks different at night," Combeferre noted as they waited for Feuilly to return with the keys.

"Even more creepy than usual," Grantaire commented, eyeing a china doll.

"You get used to it," Feuilly said as he returned. Tossing the truck keys to Enjolras, he addressed the group. "Want to get a drink or something? No offense, but you guys look like you need it."

"I'm game," Grantaire said immediately.

"R–" Enjolras began.

"One drink can't hurt," Combeferre said.

"What if the police finds us?" Enjolras replied.

"We'll have you to get us out," Grantaire said with a grin. "You've done it before."

"That doesn't mean I enjoyed it."

"Let's just celebrate not getting shot, okay?"

Enjolras and Combeferre glanced at Feuilly to gauge his reaction at Grantaire's slipup, but he said nothing.

* * *

They pulled a cover over the sports car to hide it from the police or vandals, piled into the small, battered but sturdy-looking truck, and went to a noisy bar a few blocks away, Feuilly promising plenty of alcohol and dancing. Enjolras, who only drank if required to, resigned himself to a very long evening, ending with Combeferre and himself dragging Grantaire – and perhaps Feuilly as well – to one of their nearby apartments in the early hours of the morning.

He took a seat with Combeferre at an unoccupied table in a corner, turning down Grantaire and Feuilly's offer to sit at the bar. Just as he opened his iPhone to begin reading Charles Dickens' _Great Expectations_, he heard a voice.

"Either of you play poker, gentlemen?"

A woman stood before them, wearing dark skinny jeans and a black, form-fitting top, a belt with a silver buckle around her waist. Stilettos gave her extra height, but she was already tall, her legs almost impossibly long. Her dark hair fell in slight waves to her shoulders, smoky makeup accepting her tan skin and brown eyes.

"I play a little," Enjolras heard Combeferre say, "but he plays well," his friend added, gesturing to Enjolras.

"I haven't played in quite some time," the blonde said as the woman took a seat at their table.

"It doesn't hurt to practice, now does it?" she said as she began to deal the cards, clearly willing to ignore the fact that neither Combeferre nor Enjolras had verbally agreed to participate.

But something in her eyes told Enjolras she wouldn't take no for an answer.

Over the years as a con artist, Enjolras had become skilled at poker, but he had never met an opponent quite like her. They played for money, and Enjolras found himself matching every euro she laid down on the table. Grantaire and Feuilly came over to watch, and Combeferre dropped out of the game after a while, leaving Enjolras and his intriguing partner to finish the hand. He knew he should walk away before she took everything he had, but something kept him from leaving.

"Let's see what you got, pretty boy," she said as the game came to a close. Ignoring his opponent's taunt, he laid a four, five, six, seven, and eight of hearts on the table – a straight flush. Her face revealed nothing as she put her cards down, consisting of a ten, a jack, queen, king and ace of hearts.

A royal flush, the only hand that could beat a straight.

"Well played," Enjolras said respectfully as she collected the pile of money and his genuine Rolex watch from the center of the table.

"Thank you, Enjolras," she said, meeting his gaze.

He stared back at her, knowing full well he had never told her his name during the course of the poker game. To his knowledge, his name hadn't been mentioned by his friends or himself on the bar premises, and there was no possible way she could have discovered it. Unless…

"I know who you are," she said, collecting the cards and shuffling them with a practiced ease. Enjolras tensed at her words, Combeferre, Grantaire and Feuilly catching onto his demeanor quickly. "I'm not here to turn you in," she continued, if that's what you're wondering.

"I have a job offer for you."

Enjolras watched she looked over her shoulder and nodded; two men around his age appeared out of the crowd and came to stand on either side of her chair. Grantaire and Feuilly started to stand, clearly ready for a fight, but Combeferre motioned for them to return to their seats.

"My boys aren't looking for a rumble," the woman said, pushing back her and standing, "but you'll get one if you start it." She looked at Enjolras. "I don't do offers in crowds. If you want to hear it, meet me in the alley outside." Without waiting for a reply, she turned and crossed the bar, the two men following closely behind, and they left through a side door.

"Who _is_ she?" Grantaire slurred, clearly impressed by the woman.

"Should we hear what she has to say?" Combeferre asked.

"It could be a trap," Enjolras countered.

"There's four of us and three of them," Feuilly said. "We could take them."

Enjolras stood and began to make his way through the crowd without a word, ignoring Grantaire's shout for him to wait. He paused before the back door, trying to hear voices beyond it to signify a trap was being laid, but there was only silence. Combeferre came to his side a moment later, and Enjolras looked over his shoulder to see Feuilly approach, trying to keep the nearly drunk Grantaire from falling over.

"Be prepared for anything," Enjolras said in a low voice, and Combeferre nodded, features serious as Enjolras opened the door.

The woman stood with the two men in the alley, a cigarette at her lips, which she lowered as Enjolras, Combeferre, Feuilly, and Grantaire exited the bar. "So you decided to come after all," she said.

"Who are you?" Enjolras asked. He knew it was likely she would refuse to reveal her name, but he preferred to know who he was dealing with.

She took a long drag of her cigarette, then dropped it to the pavement, extinguishing it with the toe of her stiletto heel. "I think you know me, Enjolras," she said. His brow knit in confusion, thinking she would stop there, but she continued. "Does the name Jondrette ring a bell?"

He recognized the name instantly. Éponine Jondrette was a rising con artist in the underworld circuit, having made herself prominent by landing her parents – the Thénardiers, cons from the old days – in jail, gaining custody of her two siblings, stealing from some of the most corrupt politicians in the country, and evading the police every single time. Few people, even fellow cons, had ever seen her face to face, though grainy, low quality images were on the news every month or so. She clearly preferred to work in secret – not that Enjolras blamed her.

Even cons had some respect for one another.

"You're younger than I thought you would be," Grantaire said. Éponine smiled slightly but said nothing.

"So what's the offer?" Enjolras asked.

"The people call you the Robin Hoods of Paris," she said, forcing them to wait for her answer. "You steal from the rich and give to the poor. That's all very well, but your targets aren't big enough. You take a little here, a little there, but don't go for the jackpot, as it were." Éponine fixed Enjolras with a piercing look. "You and your accomplices are some of the most talented in the business. Wouldn't you like to leave your mark by taking every last cent from every one of the corrupt politicians in this country?"

She let them absorb the information for a moment, and continued. "You can walk away if you choose, but wouldn't you like to see the rich brought to their knees for once?"

Enjolras' mind was whirling with a thousand different thoughts, but he did not let any emotion cross his features. "What would the reward be in the end?"

"The money would be split evenly between you, your accomplices, my boys, and myself. It's going to be enough to retire and disappear from FBI's wanted list. I know how you work, Robin Hood," Éponine said with a smile, "and I won't disappoint. The majority will go to those who really need it. What do you say?"

Enjolras let his gaze shift to each of his companions. Reading their answers in their eyes, he looked back at Éponine.

"We'll take it."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: I mean no disrespect to the current or past French presidential or governmental systems. There will be one or two political references in this chapter, and, to give myself creative license, I am basing the French president in this story on Cornelius Snow from Suzanne Collins' **_**The Hunger Games**_** trilogy. I am not basing the president off any real person, public figure or otherwise.**

**I made a new cover image to accompany this story. It's not as beautiful as anything pennylanes (epjolras on Tumblr) would make, but it's okay.**

**Sliverloc303's _A Revolutionary Job Prospect_, the piece I adopted to create _Deal the Cards..._, has been updated! Go read it!**

* * *

The apartment to which Éponine directed them two days later was in a fairly well-off part of the city, but Enjolras was reminded of the ghetto as no less than five deadbolts were heard being unlocked from the other side of the door after he knocked. Courfeyrac and Jehan – Enjolras, Combeferre and Grantaire had been introduced to Éponine's partners-in-crime the night the deal was made – ushered him and his friends into the apartment; Feuilly was not with them for this, as he was not technically involved in their conning, and had to work at the pawnshop regardless.

As Enjolras entered the main room of the apartment with Combeferre and Grantaire, he took in what resembled to be an artist's studio. The room was empty except for a red armchair, two black couches facing each other, a coffee table between them, while a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the city dominated the space. A painting of a pale, oval-faced girl, wearing a blue and yellow headscarf and looking over her shoulder with a pearl earring in one ear, hung on one wall.

"Are any of you gentlemen familiar with Johannes Vermeer?"

Enjolras and his companions turned to see Éponine wearing jean shorts that made her legs appear a mile long, and a dark red, almost burgundy, T-shirt, the fabric snug and accenting her not-insubstantial curves. He wrenched himself from those thoughts and took in her face; her eyes were as dark and captivating as he remembered, but she seemed to be wearing little makeup, her long black hair tumbling around her shoulders.

_You are here to do a job_, he told himself firmly. _Women have never distracted you before. This one isn't any different._

"He was a Dutch painter in the seventeenth century," Grantaire replied, a hint of interest in his voice. Though it appeared his passion was drinking, his true interest was painting, even though he had dropped out of art school before Enjolras first met him.

"Then I assume at least you know," she said, addressing Grantaire as she approached them in long, leisurely strides, "that this is considered his masterpiece?"

"Yes. _The Girl with the Pearl Earring_, if I'm not mistaken."

"The portrait of the unknown girl," Éponine said, a touch of approval in her tone, "often called the _Mona Lisa_ of the North. This is not the original, of course. That hangs in the Mauritshuis gallery."

"Forgive my limited knowledge of art," Combeferre interjected, "but I would have expected you to have the _Mona Lisa_ instead. Secretive smile, hidden codes, the like."

"Ah, but the _Mona Lisa_'s smile has been seen by the world. Fewer have seen this," Éponine said, gesturing a hand to the painting beside her, and Enjolras knew she was not only referring to the artwork, but herself.

"Forgive my intrusion, but we came to discuss business," Enjolras said. He did not intend to sound rude, but they had come with a purpose that did not involve chatting about art.

"Very well," Éponine said seriously, but with a slight smile that told him she had sensed his frustration and reveled in it. Enjolras' jaw clenched slightly in irritation, but he said nothing.

"I do have a plan laid out already," she said as they all took seats around the coffee table, Éponine claiming the red armchair as she opened a manila folder on the low table Enjolras hadn't noticed when they came in. "However, if any of you have any amendments, feel free to voice them." She removed the first several papers in the folders, spreading them out on the glass surface of the coffee table.

"These are the passwords and security codes to the bank accounts of a majority of the most corrupt and wealthiest people in this country – politicians, businessmen and –women, federal employees, you name it. My plan is to transfer their millions, and, in some cases, billions, to accounts Courfeyrac, Jehan, and I've opened over the years, and, I assume, to yours as well," she said, her gaze sweeping Enjolras, Grantaire, and Combeferre as she spoke. It was a common precaution amongst con artists so banks would not become suspicious of a sudden influx of an inordinate amount of money all at once.

When Grantaire, Combeferre, and Enjolras nodded in agreement, she continued. "Combeferre, I've heard you can break into almost any safe."

"I haven't tried banks yet," he replied, "but home security, yes."

"You will be valuable in assisting Jehan, I'm sure," she said, and Enjolras noted that she did not utter the word irreplaceable. No one was irreplaceable in the world of conning.

"You are faster than me at breaking into safes, Éponine," Jehan said modestly.

"It's instinct for me, but you have talent," she replied. "Grantaire, care to explain what role you played in your con group?"

"Distractions, mainly," he said. "When everyone's drunk, it's hard to remember who starts the fight."

"I have a feeling you and I will work well together," Courfeyrac said with a grin. "I'm in the distractions department as well. And that," he said, looking at Éponine and Enjolras, "leaves our masterminds." He and Jehan exchanged a knowing glance Enjolras did not understand.

"As you commented when we met," the blond said to Éponine, "I apparently need to broaden my targets, per se, but our objectives are the same."

"Agreed, Robin Hood," she replied. "Steal from the rich and give to the poor, isn't that your motto?"

"More or less, but I do not style myself as Robin Hood, per se. I am merely assisting those less fortunate than myself."

"I won't be your Maid Marian, if that's what you want, unless we are referencing the Marian who fought Robin to par."

"I never said-"

"Let's get back to business, shall we?" she asked. At Enjolras' nod, Éponine spread more papers across the coffee table. "There is a charity dinner being hosted in two weeks' time at one of the private mansions of a senator."

"Two weeks?" Enjolras questioned. "Are you sure that's enough time to pull this off?"

She looked him straight in the eye. "Don't underestimate me," Éponine said in a voice as hard as steel. Looking back down at the paper in her hand, she continued in a lighter tone. "The dinner is a huge event, and half the country seems to have been invited. It seems risky with so many people who could see us, yes," she said, meeting Enjolras' gaze, "but that's where Courfeyrac and Grantaire's distractions and Jehan's disguises will come in handy.

"I have a list of potential alibis I drew up yesterday. Jehan and Combeferre, are you good with being caterers?" At their nod, she continued. "Grantaire and Courfeyrac, friends of the senator's grandson?" As they gave their approval, she turned to Enjolras. "If posing as my husband seems less than ideal, you could always pretend to be our beloved president's greatest fan," she deadpanned.

Grantaire laughed out loud.

"We'll discuss this later," Enjolras said in a low voice.

"It'll have to be tomorrow, because I have a very important appointment to keep," Éponine said as she slid all the papers in the folder and stood. "Meet back here tomorrow and we'll go over the finer points of the plan."

"Same time?" Enjolras asked as he and his friends went to the door.

"Of course."

* * *

"Be careful you never become one of them," the white-haired man said as he walked into his grandson's room.

Marius looked from where he sat on a couch before a flat screen TV where a reporter was interviewing a construction worker. "What did you say?" he asked his grandfather incredulously.

"Be careful you never become-" Gillenormand began, taking a seat beside his grandson on the couch.

"I heard what you said," Marius interrupted, muting the television, "it's just... What's wrong with working? You work. I work. Alright, mine's an internship, but it's the same concept."

"What I do, and what you will be doing," Gillenormand explained, "is intellectual. What they do," he said gesturing dismissively at the television, "is merely manual labor. It doesn't take any thought."

"You're basically saying they're peasants."

"I wouldn't put it that way, but can they help run a country? Don't be daft! Of course not. They need people like you and me to take care of them."

They fell into silence for a moment, and then Marius spoke. "What if I told you I actually want to work for a living? Really work, not intellectually, but-"

"You want to become a construction worker?" Gillenormand asked, confused.

"Not exactly," Marius said, "but I don't think I should be above anyone else just because I'm well off."

"Marius-"

"I'm positive I only got the internship because I'm related to you and they didn't want to get on your bad side."

"Have you gone insane?" Gillenormand exclaimed. "What on earth are you talking about?"

Marius turned to his grandfather. "I want to be known for the strength of my character, not how much money I have or because I have a law degree that I didn't pay anything to get." He ran a hand through his reddish-brown hair. "Is it that hard to understand?"

Gillenormand's face turned red, a stark contrast to his white hair and goatee. "Are you drunk?"

"Of course not," Marius said, confused. "I just want people to see me, not my money or my family. That's all."

His grandfather was silent for a moment, and Marius thought for a brief moment he had gotten through to the older man. Then Gillenormand spoke.

"You sound just like your father."

Marius did not say a word.

His grandfather stood. "Goodnight, Marius."

The sound of the door being slammed as Gillenormand left effectively ended the conversation.

Cosette answered her phone on the third ring. "Marius?"

"Sorry. I know it's late. I didn't wake you, did I?" he said, running a hand through his hair as he held his iPhone to his ear.

"I was just getting ready for bed. Is something wrong?"

He was starting to regret calling in the first place. It wasn't her problem to bear. "It's... nothing, really. I should let you sleep-"

"I know you too well to believe that," Cosette said, her words causing her boyfriend to smile despite himself. "I know you wouldn't have called this late unless it was important. What's bothering you?"

He sighed. "Technically it's nothing new. I argued with my grandfather again." Cosette was silent on the other end, and he continued. "We were talking about work, and I told him... I told him I wanted to be known for the strength of my character, not how much money I had."

"Marius, that's nothing to be ashamed of."

"I know. Then he asked if I was drunk or something and couldn't believe what I said. I didn't exactly expect him to be okay with it all, not really, but he was furious." Marius sighed again. "Then he said I sounded like my father."

The subject of Georges Pontmercy had always been a delicate one between Marius and Gillenormand. Marius' mother had died from birth complications, and Gillenormand had always told Marius that his father had abandoned him just after his mother's death, leaving Gillenormand to raise the boy. Despite the grandfather's seeming hatred of Georges Pontmercy, he made his grandson write his father a letter once a month, but never let Marius read the replies. As Marius grew older, he had grown curious about the man he had never seen, beginning to question his grandfather about Georges Pontmercy, but Gillenormand gave very little information.

"I should let you sleep," Marius said.

"If you're still upset-" his girlfriend began, but he interrupted, albeit gently.

"I'm more frustrated than anything, but I'll be alright."

"If you're sure… Goodnight, then," Cosette said. "I love you."

"Love you, too." Marius ended the call and let his gaze rest on the still-muted television, a million thoughts running through his head.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: _The Girl with the Pearl Earring_ by Johannes Vermeer is a real painting. It is unknown exactly when it was created, but sources say it was approximately 1665. It currently hangs in the Mauritshuis gallery in The Hauge in the Netherlands.**

**This story is based on the 2012 film, so my Marius is inspired by Eddie Redmayne, but, to give the character more depth, I decided to put some influences of the Brick. Georges Pontmercy will be very instrumental in the next couple of chapters.**


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: To the guest reviewer who mentioned that _The Girl with the Pearl Earring_ is currently being house in the High Museum in Atlanta while the Mauritshuis gallery in The Hauge, the Netherlands, is being renovated – thanks for the information! I've decided not to change the previous chapter, as I would like this story to be free from being locked in one specific year, but thank you for taking the time to tell me about the renovation. **

* * *

Google's logo stared back at Marius as he gazed at his laptop screen, hesitating before typing twenty-three letters with three spaces into the search engine, unsure of what he would find as he pressed the enter key.

_Colonel Georges Pontmercy_

The page took a brief moment to load, but website links appeared soon enough. Some had nothing to do with his father, but a certain bolded phrase stood out to Marius, and he clicked on the link above the summary. A newspaper article appeared, the headline proclaiming _Army Officer Shot By Anti-Military Gunman_. He scoured the article, learning that Georges had been shot by a highway while biking down the road. When he had been discovered and taken to a hospital, he had told paramedics that a civilian by the name of Thénardier – not the gunman – had saved his life, but the civilian was never found. The gunman had been arrested and the colonel survived.

Marius returned to the main page, but the other links proved to be less helpful than even the newspaper article. He did find the enlistment announcement of his father thirty years earlier, but there were only snippets of information that wasn't really information at all. He clicked on the images link, hoping to find anything, but he wasn't prepared to see his own face halfway down the page.

Opening the image to its full size, he leaned forward, taking in every detail. Upon closer inspection, the image was not of him, but of a man with similar features, bearing the same auburn hair but blue eyes instead of brown. It was an official photograph of Georges in full dress uniform, the wide brim of his hat shading his eyes as he stood before a French flag, face serious as he gazed into the camera.

This was the first time Marius had ever seen his father's face.

Closing out the image, he had just returned to the main page of the links when he heard his name spoken. Turning, he saw his grandfather standing behind him, features drawn, and Marius knew Gillenormand had seen who his grandson was researching. Instead of exploding in anger and ranting about the many failures of Georges as Marius expected, Gillenormand merely extended a hand, a slip of paper between his fingers.

"What's this?" Marius asked, taking the paper and reading a Parisian address written on it.

"It's your father's address," Gillenormand explained, and Marius looked up sharply.

"What?"

"Go. It's an emergency, I understand. Just go."

* * *

A million thoughts fought for prominence in his focus as he drove to the address, so caught up in his thoughts he accidentally ran a red light.

The address had to belong to his father. Why his grandfather had not reacted negatively to the sight of his grandson researching Georges, Marius did not know, but he decided to unravel that mystery later and put all his energy into the matter at hand. Gillenormand had said it was an emergency. That word could apply to a hundred different situations, but Marius tried not make himself panic - assuming it had been about his father at all. This could be about something altogether completely different, but he was fairly sure he knew who it concerned.

Gillenormand had told his grandson few less-than-flattering stories of Georges over the years, painting him in a negative light, but Marius wanted to come to his own conclusions about his father. From what he had been told, Marius had gathered facts, attempting to strip away the bias to learn the information. Georges Pontmercy and Marie Gillenormand - Marius' mother - had met through a mutual friend; he had been a _commandant_, a major, in the army at the time, while she had been in her final year at university. The relationship had blossomed quickly, and they became engaged a year after meeting. Gillenormand had stressed to Marius that he had told Marie repeatedly that Georges was 'not a good choice for a husband,' but, in defiance, Marie had eloped with Georges.

Gillenormand had informed Marius he had not expected to see his daughter again, but received a call from Georges nearly a year later, who told him Marie was in a hospital experiencing major birth complications while delivering a son. When Gillenormand arrived at the hospital, the infant - Marius - had been born, healthy and very much alive, but Marie was dead.

Gillenormand, as he always did when telling his grandson of the story of his birth, explained that Georges had stayed by his dead wife's side long enough to inform Gillenormand to take the child, and left, never to see his son or father-in-law again.

Marius reached the address in half an hour's time. Parking in the apartment building complex, he began to ascend the stairs, passing a woman in a black pantsuit, her dark hair in a sleek ponytail.

"Excuse me, are you Georges Pontmercy's son?" she asked. "Marius?"

"I... Yes, I am," he replied, confused.

"I'm Michelle Simon, Georges' attorney. I realize it's a bit soon, but if you would you come with me, there are some legal matters you need to settle before the funeral-"

"What funeral?" Marius asked, feeling his stomach drop.

"For your father..." Michelle's eyes widened. "You don't know?"

"No, I don't."

Michelle's features settled into a serious expression. "Georges died this morning."

* * *

The rest of that day and the morning of the funeral service the next day passed in a blur for Marius.

He had been allowed to view the body before it had been cremated in the funeral home, but he had not stayed long beside the body. This was not out of distaste for the dead or a rejection of his father's memory, but because what his father was in death would never change the fact that he had willingly left Marius in life.

Only the landlady of the apartment where the man had lived, the pastor performing the ceremony, and Marius himself were in attendance at the funeral. Georges was not wealthy by any means; though Marius paid for a portion of the funeral with his own money and his father's trust, the service was simple, taking place in the church Marius himself had attended growing up. The church itself was a good distance from Georges' apartment, but Marius had been informed his father had requested the service to take place in that specific church.

After the service, the pastor, Mabeuf, approached him.

"You are his son, correct?" the elderly man said. Marius was struck by the differences between the kind Mabeuf and his own grandfather, who were both the same age but shared few characteristics. "How much did your grandfather tell you about Georges?" Mabeuf asked.

Marius shrugged. "Not a lot. He told me that he and my mother eloped, and then he dumped me on my grandfather when my mom died."

"That's not surprising…" Mabeuf said under his breath. "Let's continue this conversation in my office. There's quite a bit I need to tell you."

Marius followed the pastor into the office down a hallway, taking a seat in a chair before a desk as Mabeuf did the same behind the piece of furniture. "Where to begin…" the pastor said, folding his hands together and leaning forward on the surface of the desk. "I take it your grandfather did not paint Georges in the best light while you were growing up?"

"Not exactly," Marius admitted.

"I realize my word does not hold the same value as your grandfather's, but you must know your father loved you very much."

"Then why did he leave?"

"He was forced to." Mabeuf sighed. "By your grandfather."

Marius said nothing.

"Your father told me this about fifteen years ago," the pastor continued. "I noticed him in the back of the church every two or three months, watching a boy and his grandfather attend the service. The boy was you," Mabeuf explained. "I didn't think much of it until I met him officially. He told me that he was your father, and that your grandfather had forced him to stay away from you. Your grandfather apparently had threatened to disinherit you from the family fortune, while the body of your mother wasn't yet cold in the hospital the night of your birth."

Marius paled.

Mabeuf cleared his throat. "To respect your grandfather's… _wishes_, he had no contact with you except through handwritten letters." The memory of the monthly letters Marius' grandfather forced him to write flashed before his eyes, but he also remembered that he had never received a reply. It dawned on him that Gillenormand had mostly likely taken the letters from his grandson. "So that is why he requested to have his funeral service here," Mabeuf added. "The only place he had truly been happy, he told me."

Marius was silent as the pastor opened a drawer in his desk, pulling out an envelope and holding it out to Marius. "Just before he passed, he asked me to give you this if you came to his funeral."

Marius took the letter and stood. "Thank you for the information," he said, extending a hand across the desk to Mabeuf.

"You are very welcome," the pastor replied as he shook Marius' hand. "I hope that letter clears things up for you. If you ever want to talk, you know where to find me."

Marius took his car and drove aimlessly for a while, ignoring the fact that he was wasting gas as he attempted to process that his grandfather had lied to him his entire life.

The pastor could have lied. But the story he had been given was too elaborate and detailed for it to be a falsehood. Marius could reconcile the fact that his grandfather had blackmailed Georges into leaving, as Gillenormand was almost obsessed with family image and reputation.

Marius found himself driving past a deserted park, and pulled into the parking lot, grateful for the quiet. Only then did he open the letter, seeing his father's handwriting for the first time.

_Marius,_

_I don't know if you will ever forgive me, but I apologize with every atom of my being for leaving you. Pastor Mabeuf will explain everything to you, and I beg you to believe what he tells you, because every word of it is true. I love you and I loved your mother dearly. I wish I could go back and change what happened that night in the hospital, but please believe me in the fact that I was thinking of your best interest. I wanted you to have the life you deserved, not living with me. I had the means to provide for you and raise you, but your grandfather could give you the life you were meant to lead. _

_I have one request of you, the only thing I will ever ask of you. When I was shot by an anti-military gunman, a civilian saved my life. The road I was ambushed on was deserted from some time, but a man drove by and got out to help me. He had a family with him, but still stopped and saved me. He woke me and kept me conscious for a while, and told me his name was Thénardier before I blacked out. When I awoke, an ambulance had arrived but Thénardier was nowhere to be found. I am sure the Lord Himself sent an angel to save, or I would have died that night. My request is that you help Thénardier in any way you can. That's all I ask._

_Whatever your grandfather may have told you of me, please know that I love you, very, very much._

_- Georges Pontmercy_

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: We will get back to Enjolras and Éponine in the next chapter, but the Marius-Georges-Gillenormand subplot has a very important purpose. This is probably the only chapter that will be entirely from Marius' point of view. **

**I did my absolute best to blend the Brick and the musical/movie (but more of the 2012 film), and I sincerely hope it turned out realistically. Marius is kind of a jerk when he first comes in the novel, but Eddie Redmayne's interpretation of the character (which I am borrowing in this story) is much more friendly and frankly a lot nicer than Brick!Marius. Victor Hugo based Marius upon himself when he was young, so technically I called Victor Hugo a jerk. Oops.**

**By the way, Father Mabeuf was going to be in the 2012 film, but they cut his scene at the barricade. Yet they had time to have a clip of a cow which served no purpose…**

**Thank you to everyone who reviewed!**


End file.
